Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Gio turns to me. “Since when do you cook?”
“Uh,” I say. “I mean, yeah—sort of. I threw something in earlier and forgot?”
Gio squints. “Forgot? Are you trying to burn this entire building down?”
“No! I just…drifted off.”
“Drifted off? Are you okay?” he asks, mild concern etched across his brows. “This looks like a full meal. Were you expecting someone?”
I laugh.
Bad move; it comes out high-pitched and panicked. “Pfft, no. Hilarious. I was meal prepping.”
He blinks. “You made lemon chicken for meal prep?”
“Yes,” I lie. “For the week.”
“Can we eat?” I grab the carton and a fork from the food he was gracious enough to bring over. “I’ll put the chicken in containers after you leave.”
Hint hint.
“This is awesome.” I furiously chew. “Just great.”
But it’s not great, is it?
But it’s not great.
It’s the opposite of great.
It’s a disaster.
Because a full-grown man is currently trapped in my bedroom with no food, no dignity, and nothing to do to keep himself occupied.
15
luca
So. This is how I die.
Not in a blaze of glory.
Not in some noble act of sacrifice.
Not while heroically saving a cat from a burning building or wrestling a shark off the coast of Maui. Not even by drowning in a tragic but oddly cinematic way.
Nope.
I’m going to die of boredom.
Alone in a bedroom that smells like vanilla candles and lemon chicken.
With absolutely nothing to do except stare at a collection of half-burnt Bath & Body Works and wonder if this is what rock bottom feels like.
Nova’s been gone for what feels like hours. Real talk: it’s probably been about fifteen minutes, but I’ve already walked a lap around her room. Counted the ceiling dots. Tried—and failed—to meditate. Even contemplated reading her old planner for fun.
I sigh so dramatically the ghost of Shakespeare probably claps somewhere.
Death by boredom. That’s my legacy now.
This is my lore.
Her bedroom is cute. Organized chaos. There are candles on every surface, a stack of unread books by her bed, and a stack of clothes piled on a desk chair. One of her drawers is slightly open and I’m tempted to look inside but don’t want to invade her privacy.
I lie back on her bed with a heavy sigh and stare up at the ceiling.
There is literally nothing to do.
No TV. No phone—I left mine out on the kitchen counter.
I sit up again, restless. Her bed creaks beneath me.
Too loud. I freeze. Wait. Listen.
No footsteps.
Okay. Crisis averted.
I wander over to her desk and peek at the notes scattered across it. Lots of scribbles, random song lyrics, a doodle of a slice of pizza wearing sunglasses. Of course Nova draws cool pizza…
I glance at the drawer again.
Just a peek.
Just to pass the time, I tell myself.
I slide off the bed, walk over slowly like I’m disarming a bomb, and tug it open—
Oh.
Fuck.
Staring up at me is an impressive collection of vibrators. Not one. Not two. Three. And a bottle of lube.
I blink. Once.
Twice.
Well then! Now we’re ready to party!
My brain momentarily short-circuits.
On one hand: private. Personal. Possibly crossing a line.
On the other hand: I didn’t expect the drawer to be hosting a silicone party.
Bright colors. Multiple sizes.
One of them has sparkles. Sparkles.
Newsflash: curiosity always wins.
Reaching in, I carefully lift the purple one like I’m handling a lightsaber made of sin. It’s heavier than expected.
Smooth.
Intimidating in a how does this even work kind of way.
I press the button.
Nothing happens.
I press it again, harder this time, like it's a stubborn elevator. Still nothing.
I shake it. Because why not? That’s what people do with remotes and vending machines, right?
Then, with the grace of a caveman discovering fire, I slide my thumb over a smaller button near the base—
Bzzzzz.
Bzzz.
It vibrates to life like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment.
I jump. Actually jump. Nearly drop it.
“Okay,” I whisper, awestruck. “Wow. This is intense.”
Fucking gnarly!
I've never held a dildo before. Definitely not in my current situation—fully clothed, alone in a girl’s bedroom, trying not to panic that I’ll be trapped here the remainder of the evening alone.
I stare at the vibrating purple beast in my palm.
It stares back with its one eye.
This is power. This is technology.
“I am the man,” I declare to no one. “I have conquered the serpent.”
ROAR!
Now I have questions.
So. Many. Questions.
How many speeds does that thing have?
Is there an instruction manual on how to use these on her?
Would she let me?
Can I kiss her again without thinking about that drawer?
It takes me a few more painfully awkward minutes to figure out how to shut the thing off. I cycle through about seventeen vibration patterns first—each one more alarming than the last—until finally, blessed silence.
Setting it back inside the drawer, I close it softly as if I hadn’t just invaded her privacy.
I need a distraction.
My eyes dart to the stack of books on the table, top one has an illustrated cover of a cute couple, the man holding a dog leash. They both look wind-blown and happy, the dude with a jaunty grin.